Psalms 64:7

“The human mind and heart are a mystery; but God will loose an arrow at them, and suddenly they will be wounded”


Psalms 64:7



The forest morning stood still from His stand

And it was good, He remembered.

Fervently he studied the mystery through the falling leaves

Was it good still?

In the distance the brush rustled slightly.

The quiver lightened as he armed the graceful weapon.

Thick callused wrists drew string past cheek.

His tired eyes took careful aim.

Silver tipped shadows broke into the stillness.

Her flesh tore perfectly about the chest; suddenly

Still. Good. Still.

I keep a revolution in my satchel

I keep a revolution in my satchel
It’s small and bearded
Very Che Guvaray
I found it online
But they sell them at Urban Outfitters
It’s black and bespectacled
Very Malcom Xy
Yippied and Big-Nosed
Very Abbie Hoffmany
My revolution is gorgeous
Bite-sized and balding
Very Mao Tse Tsungy
It’s great for parties.
Blood red and Mustachioed
Very Joseph Staliny
Mysterious and Militant
Very Vladamir Leniny
All dreadlocked and doobied
Very Marcus Garveyy
While not televised
It has a killer iPhone app
Out of all the places to keep a revolution
I keep the power of the people in my purse

Insomuch Sandwich

“I love you,” said a man to his sandwich. The fingerlessly gloved man, seated in the corner nook of a public library, spoke toward his bulging pants pocket.  The secret felt warm and cheesy on his leg.  Its smell wafted up from under the table.  He had, moments before, completed a wall of reference books along the outside edge of the peanut shaped table. Some were casually opened, so as not to rouse too much suspicion from the librarians most of whom could be said to be less than sandwich friendly.  To a passerby, he supposed he might appear as a tortured graduate student, one that happened to have cold hands, diligently and precociously seeking knowledge yet unknown to internet search engines.  His plans being much more visceral than knowledge he thought this the perfect cover. He looked however much more like a balding drifter with a pocket full of something sandwich-shaped.  

His eyes dilated.  The moment was immanent.  He reached the ungloved tips of his fingers into his hip pocket and carefully removed a smooshed but radiant beef on rye.  Its onions were red and its tomatoes even more so.  He set it softly on the fake oak covered table.  The sandwich was as thick as the thighs of an Old West burlesque dancer.  The mayonnaise could be seen exploding from a hole in the brown bread like an oily whipped egg volcano.

One of the open books caught his eye.  It felt awkward that he should become distracted by these pages now.  He had spent the morning casually going through the motions of constructing his cover, mentally fixated on his beefy future.  With it inches from his lips he had lost concentration.  “. . . Insomuch . . .” leaped from the page into his cerebral cortex, hurdled thoughts of the sandwich like an ex-Olympian shoplifting; that one word satiated his senses.

He turned away from the splayed knowledge container and toward the lust of his flesh.  He felt exposed seeing it there on the tabletop.  His pocket was empty and cold.  The sandwich seemed different, less lusty somehow.  Immediately his vision was overtaken by another book, “. . . insofar . . .” it read.

These words were as smooshed as any pocket roast beef on rye.  It appeared to be a typo, a ménage a trios in print.  He dug through his strewn reference books for a Collegiate Dictionary.  He had used it for the foundation of his fortress.  The man was careful to lay its closed spine faced out, feeling that the word collegiate fit nicely into his cover.  As he slipped it out, the imitation leather binding brushed the moist skin of a tomato.  He franticly flipped to the I’s disregarding his tabled totem.

  There they were, authenticated.  The shattered skeptic turned back to the tilting tower of cheesy, mayonnaisey meat, in existential crisis.  Suddenly, in a mystical vision, he saw that the sandwich needed something more.  Why not remove the spaces?  WHYNOTREMOVEALLTHESPACES!?!  Wasn’t that the mysterious joy of pocket sandwiches?  The pleasure he received by pocketing was not just its convenience or its secrecy; what drove him to love was its smooshedness.

He lifted the huge dictionary high above his combed-over head and climbed up onto the corduroy cushioned seat. He wore the light fixture now like an upside down funnel hat.  A primal scream shook dust from his hat.  With the force of a rioter slinging rocks at the system, his naked fingers brought the entire English language down onto his beef on rye.

When the librarian tackled him, a tear tinged with mayonnaise ran down his check.  A tear of joy.  Spaceless joy.

Isaiah 11

I've been playing outside ever since forever

I'm pretty good at it

And my mommy always says

"Don't go near that snake hole"

And I didn't.  I never did.

But then 

My Daddy said that ever since the stump of Jesse 

Got a new branch on it,

It means little boys can play over there,

By the snake hole.

So I did it.  I did it yesterday.

I'm pretty good at it.

Mr. Cobra and I are pretty much best buddies now.

He's a really good hugger.

We played tickle fight

And mustache

And he shared some of my ice cream cone.

I'm pretty glad about that stump branch.

Isaiah 11

Colorless Green Ideas Sleep Furiously

I am taking a Linguistics class this semester and we were talking about syntactic clues in Language.  We were given a sentence and asked what we could determine about it.  I loved the sentence.  Supposedly it is meaningless but I found it profound; poetic even.  It inspired the following.

Colorless green ideas sleep furiously

In empty beds beneath the calmly florescent gazebo

Dreaming themselves blue faceless smiles

Mindless thinkers swimmingly still

Dawn quickly awaits.

I am no musician

I am no musician

shouts a man into the night

angry as a trash can

filled by firelight

Stalin is his comrade

rhetoric his kite

lofty in the heavens

pandering and bright

I am no musician

crones a beatnik from the stage

empty like a row boat

leaky with old age

wisdom is his mentor

Solomon his sage

poisoning the future

from his current cage

I am no musician

pines a hero of the past

pretty as a widow

from a lowly caste

Gandhi is her savior

loneliness her fast

tying up her mourning

to a slave ship's mast

Let the Peace of Christ Rule in Your Hearts

It is a Tuesday in my heart
Early November in an even year
And Peace is running
Like a river more than a candidate
Dripping with potential
He’s damned upstream but ready to be let.

It is Evening in my heart
On the West Coast polls just closed
And Peace is losing
Like a sunset more than a boxer
The darkness is imminent
His fiery shafts stretch as the purple pushes.

Democracy fails in my heart.
Fear of corruption grips the populace
And Peace is missing
Like a rainbow’s end more than a runaway
Ethereal and distant
He’ll return one day with Revolution

Reformation, I say

I am all for Tort Reform

Those Bastards

All their unbridled torting

It is time, I say, for a reformation

Martin Luther (not the King) style

Can a cowboy get a 95 theses up in here?

And also Land Reform

I am all for that

(If one can be all for more than one thing)

Those Fascist Hippies

It is time for a reformation of the land, I say

Can a bus driver get his 40 acres and a mule?

Oh and Health Care Reform

That, I am all for

Those Greedy Dentists

I say socialize my medicine

Like a homeschooled girl at a reformation picnic

Can a doorman get a vaccination?

And also, Immigration Reform

All that, I am for

Those Apple Pie Haters

Ship them out, says I, reformation style

Castrate and excommunicate

Can a Calvinist get a green card neighbor?

Likewise with, Campaign Finance Reform

For that, am I, all

Those Scientists

Close the books and throw away the key

Into the depths of reformation hell, I say, I say

Can a cobbler get a corruption charge?

Finally, Welfare Reform

Am, for, that, all, I

Those Crocodile Sweaters

Take it all back and reform her

I say, row by row, I say, color coded, I say

Can a preacher get a reformation up in this piece?

Ridicualistic

F___ realistic

I'm Ridicualistic

Pragmatic as a mystic

I'm Ridicualisitic

Like Manna's logistics

I'm Ridicualistic

Abrahamicly eccentric

I'm Ridicualisitc

Paradox is intrinsic

To Ridicualisitic

It's not about riches

It's Ridicualistic

Take privlege and risk it

You're Ridicualistic

Beyond Ritualistic

Get Ridicualistic

Spiritually artistic

Is Ridicualistic

Sillytheistic

So Ridicualisitc

Complexly simplistic

God's Ridicualistic?

(This is a sort of rap done by 13illy which is my rapping name inspired by church yesterday) 

Poetry Gig Monday Night 9pm 18th and Oak

Howdy Hey its time for more shameless self promotion

Come out and see me do some Silly Spoken Word tomorrow night at a new venue.  It's free fun times and what else were you going to do on a Monday?

Where:  scionLab @ 18th and Oak behind Grinders

When: 9pm Monday July 6th

What:   Stress Free Monday's - Poetry Night

Cost : FREE!!!! (5 bones for a bottomless cup)

I'll be doing twenty minutes of silliness so bring your friends.